Note: It has been over four months since I have posted any poetry, original or otherwise. I hope to get back to this practice, as poetry, no doubt, is good for the soul.
A thousand miles beyond this sun-steeped wall
Somewhere the waves creep cool along the sand,
The ebbing tide forsakes the listless land
With the old murmur, long and musical;
The windy waves mount up and curve and fall,
And round the rocks the foam blows up like snow —
Tho’ I am inland far, I hear and know.,
For I was born the sea’s eternal thrall.
I would there I were there and over me
The cold insistence of the tide would roll,
Quenching this burning thing men call the soul, —
Then with the ebbing I should drift and be
Less than the smallest shell along the shoal,
Less than the seagulls calling to the sea.
— Sara Teasdale
Ah, is there any doubt what is on my mind today? A few short weeks until vacation finds my feet planted, barefoot, in the warm sand again.